


What you see is what you get

by gloss



Category: Captain America, DCU - Comicverse, Marvel 616
Genre: 1970s, Crossover, Multi, Threesome, dick grayson: human sex pollen, fern bars, porny & pointless, sextastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If what you're looking for is real loving/Then what you see is what you get."</p>
            </blockquote>





	What you see is what you get

**Author's Note:**

> notes - title &amp; summary from [the dramatics song](http://www.cmt.com/lyrics/the-dramatics/whatcha-see-is-whatcha-get/2801260/lyrics.jhtml). *Highly* detailed prompt from Jube.   
> setting: Uh. Englehart's Captain America v.1 run, Nick Fury: Agent of SHIELD and Robin-goes-to-college/pre-Nightwing: Year One/Wolfman's Titans. Mid-1970s. Fern bars and swingers and clonestaches

**  
12-10-2008  
**

Steve isn't dumb. He knows that Fury and the Contessa, separately and together, are up to something. They're out to prove a point, each vying to top the other in what seem to be increasingly obscure and complicated ways.

The point, he knows, concerns him. They're contesting about him. The depths and twists of their mutual logic, however, continue to elude him.

If he didn't know better, he might think they were trying to seduce him.

Fury has taken to answering his vid-phone shirtless, all hints of military starch long since washed from his posture; when they meet in person, the colonel is even more boisterous than usual, shoulder-checking and slapping Steve, dancing around him like Cassius Clay, his voice going higher and louder.

True to their respective natures, Val is somewhat more subtle. Quite a while has elapsed since her strange, hysterical rivalry with Sharon for Steve's affections drove Fury around the bend, but she has never lost that characteristic *silkiness* of touch and voice. Steve learned, much to his embarrassment, that her gravelly whisper and hip-switching grace had, in fact, very little to do with him.

Val is eminently, *admirably*, self-contained and -reliant. Were it not for the sidelong, half-smirking glances she and Fury exchange in his presence, Steve would have nothing to suspect. (He might worry, of course, about Fury's mental stability, but that has always been something of a concern, somewhere in his mind.)

Tonight, she had called him from a pay phone, somewhere off Riverside Drive. Though weary from an aborted Avengers mission, another spat with Sam, and his day job as a flatfoot, Steve washed up, slapped on some bay rum, and met her at the corner of Columbus and 89th.

The bistro she took him to was dark, busy with a midweek mob, crowded with ferns, their fronds drooping and brushing over everyone's faces, hands, shoulders. Steve had already eaten dinner, but he bought her a cocktail and Cobb salad. She left the salad relatively untouched, save for a few birdlike bites, but she finished several drinks.

"Americans, you cannot cook to save your lives," she'd said, raising her glass to Steve, "but your drinks nearly save you."

Her dark hair was glossy in the low, diffused light, reflecting amber and indigo highlights; one lock had worked free and bounced in a loose corkscrew against her neck.

"Val --" He'd started, leaning over their narrow table, but at an imperious raise of her left brow, he sat back. "Contessa. What can I --"

She covered his hand with hers, sliding her fingers between his own before turning his palm up and massaging the skin there with her thumb. "Do friends need a reason to see each other?"

"No, of course not," Steve said. Cheeks heating up as he looked down, he almost bit his lip, he felt so abashed, but Val squeezed his hand and, somehow, he knew to meet her eyes again.

"Call me Val." It was as much of an order as any he'd ever heard. "And *relax*, _tesoro_."

"All right," Steve replied and made an effort to loosen his posture. He could think of a thousand reasons why he ought to take his leave; it was a familiar, well-thumbed list, from needing a good night's sleep to teetotalling.

Probably sensing his hesitation, Val scratched her thumb nail along his palm.

"Look around you." She waved her free hand, elegant fingers describing a shallow arc that encompassed the entire long, narrow space. "Everyone's relaxed. Everyone is --" She paused, pursing her lips as she searched for the right term. "-- with friends. Or making new friends."

Of that, as with so much else, she was absolutely right. When they'd first entered, Steve had been too concerned with offering Val his arm, guiding her to the table, to take much notice of their fellow patrons. Now, however, he could see that the crowd was in very good spirits, in near-constant motion, arms around shoulders or on hips, heads tilted against shoulders, the fern leaves scattered over their faces like sun-dapples. The clientele was, for lack of a better word, *mixed*, homosexual and straight, men and women, in roughly equal proportions.

He shouldn't have been surprised; Val, with Gabe Jones, was sure to know the most _au courant_ nightspots with the most liberal outlooks.

As time passed, Val's hand in his, her voice lulling and warming him, Steve began to feel as if he were slightly intoxicated himself. Everyone looked so friendly, flushed faces and loud laughter. He let himself drift on the surface of casual socializing.

Behind the bar, a dishtowel around his neck like a pugilist between rounds, there was a young man. Steve was certain he knew him -- long, lanky limbs like that would be hard to forget, let alone the riotous cloud of loose dark curls framing his smiling face, his skin gone richly tea-dark, impossible blue eyes glimmering.

On her way back from the ladies' room, Val stopped to talk to the bar back. Steve's palm itched, empty and clammy, and he twisted his hands under the table. He wanted to look anywhere else, but every surface seemed to reflect some detail, now unfamiliar in its angularity -- the rise of Val's buttocks under her snug skirt, the tumble of curls against the young man's nape, the plunge of his open collar as sharp as any Cupid's arrow.

"You *gotta* be," one of Steve's newest, and least likable, friends insisted, knocking his head against the hanging fern pot as he crashed into Steve's table. All night long, he'd had it in his head that Steve was actually an actor named...Wainwright, or Wrangler, something like that. "I don't forget a mane like this!"

His beefy hand ruffled through Steve's hair, more forcefully than Steve had felt since he was a boy visiting his great aunts.

"Sorry," Steve told him, again, with just as much regret as the first time. "I don't know who you're talking about, I really don't."

The man's breath is beery, hops overlaying garlic and onion, as he braced one hand on Steve's shoulder and leaned in, free hand groping up Steve's thigh. "And I definitely don' forget a *dick* like this --"

Steve froze. He could break the man's arm, but that would be cruel as well as draw undue attention. He could shake off hand, as he'd done several times earlier, but the drunken man seemed incapable of learning.

Before Steve could decide what to do, the man gurgled, just once, before sliding to his knees and falling forward under the table. Where he'd once stood, Val was brushing off her hands. "You're welcome."

"Grazie, grazie," Steve murmured, stepping over the unconscious form. "What did you do?"

"Simple nerve strike," she replied under her breath. She looked up at Steve as she smoothed down his hair. "My bad news is that _un giovanotto bello_ over there, he does not know you."

Her eyelashes were very long, dark as coal, as they swept her cheeks. Steve swallowed, his throat suddenly, absurdly dry. With regret or relief, he did not know. "You didn't --"

Val's laugh bubbled up. "Though he does very much look forward to rectifying that."

"No, that's --" Impossible, Steve wanted to say, unimaginable. Over Val's shoulder, he saw the young man watching them intently as he wiped down one corner of the bar.

Val patted his cheek and, when Steve leaned into the touch, went up on her toes and kissed him. "And once again, _più amato_, you are welcome."

He had not been sure before, but Steve knew then that she wore no brassiere; her breasts were a warm, firm pressure against his chest, one that lingered, just as her kiss did, even as Val set about gathering her coat and fixing her hair.

*

His name is Dick, and when he gets off work, he leads Steve and Val on a merry stroll nowhere in particular. After a long shift, he's "full of beans", he claims, and walks between them, holding their hands, swinging their arms vigorously.

New to New York, he's studying at Hudson, working the bar four nights a week. He doesn't know what he'll major in, though he's leaning toward sociology and criminology -- Val and Steve share a look behind Dick's curly head at that -- and he really likes action movies.

"Shoot 'em ups, _Bullitt_ and _Dirty Harry_," Dick says, rattling off names of actors, like Steve McQueen and Bruce Lee. At least Steve assumes they're actors. He hasn't been to a newly released film in years; the smell of popcorn and sigh of velvet upholstery always makes him think of Bucky, too much so for him to enjoy the picture.

"Jack Wrangler?" Steve asks.

Dick tightens his grip on Steve's hand and ducks his head as Val laughs and laughs. "Him, too. Sure."

Dick appears young enough that he hasn't, quite, grown into his body all the way. The tendons on the nape of his neck are as prominent as struts on a suspension bridge; his shoulders are broad but his chest and waist quite narrow in his clinging red t-shirt.

They all but skip together, making their way westward, toward the Hudson, to Riverside Park where the lamps that still work spill wan light against twisting fog. The ground tilts sharply down to the river, grass dark as asphalt and, it seems more likely, just as dangerous.

Steve knows that he and Val can take care of themselves, but he isn't quite so confident about Dick. Even with the two of them here, Dick's high spirits could prove hazardous. He breaks free and runs up the slide in one of those backpocket playgrounds, leaping from the slide to an overhanging branch. He lifts himself like a gymnast into a handstand before swinging *around* the branch, gathering momentum, only to fly in a somersault toward the swing set.

It creaks under his weight as Dick perches on the crossbar, arms flung wide, head back to the sky. "I love this town!"

That's a sentiment Steve can second without any hesitation. His heart in his throat, however, at the sight of Dick silhouetted against the George Washington Bridge, swaying, only his ratty tennis shoes for grip.

"Please --" Steve holds up his hands, gesturing Dick down. "Come down, please?"

It's hard to make out his expression, but Steve imagines it is febrile, glittering eyes and manic smile. His hair crowds his face as Dick looks down at him for a long moment -- so long Steve cannot breathe -- before shrugging one shoulder and leaping down into the sand, easy as a cat.

Steve leans against the swing set and tries to get his breath back.

Dick shakes out his hair and bounces on the balls of his feet, looking quickly back and forth between Steve and Val. "Someone's gonna fuck me, right? One of you *has* to --"

"Sssh, shh." Val presses her finger against Dick's lips. "Steven is very old-fashioned."

"Oh. Oh, *God*, I thought --" Dick looks stricken, all joy drained from his face and body. "I'm sorry, I --"

Steve is rooted in place, dry-mouthed and heavy-hearted. His hands hang useless and *thick* at his sides. He tries to speak, but can't, quite, get anything out.

"I say things, I'm always *talking*, and I don't think, I ought to *think*, I need to --" Dick smacks his fist against his forehead, hard, then harder.

Finally, Steve can move, enough to capture Dick's hand and stop him from hitting himself. "It's all right."

"_Caro_," Val says from Dick's other side, her arm around his waist, fingers under the hem of his shirt. "Just *listen*..." She puts her lips to his ear, and Dick visibly shivers before dropping his head and inclining toward her. Steve has the urge to step away; the sudden conviction that he is *intruding* sickens him.

Before he can move, Val's gaze flickers over to him. She's smiling as she whispers and now Dick is smiling, too, looking up at Steve from beneath lashes as long and dark as Val's own.

Dick bites the corner of his mouth, gaze fastened on Steve, as he nods. "That'll work," he replies to whatever -- oh, *Lord* -- Val has proposed.

Dick throws himself backward onto the rusted merry-go-round. It turns a quarter-way, and his toes drag through the sand. His legs are open, akimbo, his arms reaching up, and Steve swallows again as Val stills the toy with one hand and climbs aboard. She settles over Dick's thighs, sitting back between his knees, hands moving over him.

Steve watches them kiss and tastes again -- or still, it must be *still* -- Val's mouth, so moist and warm that his hands shake a little. He imagines that Dick's mouth must be equally warm, slick and eager; it's certainly enough to make Val arch her back already, press his face to her bosom as her head falls backward.

Steve sinks heavily into the nearest swing. The metal chain groans slightly; he grips his knees and presses his thighs together until his penis, rapidly hardening, aches against the pressure. He cannot look anywhere else. The river is dark, smeared with occasional light, behind them, and Val and Dick move like a single creature, sinuous and beautiful. It's as if they generate their own light, refracted from their pores, just dim enough to keep you interested, to make you strain to make out the details.

Val lifts and sinks against Dick's hand, her arms around his neck, cheek pressed to the crown of his head. Her skirt is hitched up to her waist, her blouse to her armpits; buttocks and breasts alike bounce and shimmy, so rounded that Steve wouldn't know where to start drawing them. Her long neck stretches even longer as she lowers herself and *grinds*, hips thrusting fast and shallow, a torrent of gutter-Italian spilling out. Dick watches her, as awestruck as Steve, smiling and saucer-eyed as she heaves and shakes.

Her nipples are as big as half-dollars, her thighs *roped* with muscle, and the pleasure shuddering over her is hypnotic.

_Tight enough to snap a lesser man in two,_ Fury'd crowed about the Contessa's attributes. _Gushes harder'n Old Faithful, to boot._

Steve doesn't like to remember that, nor much of what Fury insists on sharing about his various conquests, but the thought, unbidden at first, now lodges in his chest. Despite himself, the thought constricts his lungs and, somehow, pulses at the base of his penis, faster than even his heartbeat.

She steps backward, simply and elegantly lifting herself free. The motion sends Dick sprawling. Val turns the merry-go-round until Dick has rotated another 180 degrees, until he is directly in Steve's line of sight. Even upside, his face is lovely, a Cellini angel, at once masculine and flushed, lips parted and eyes glassy.

"Turn over," Val tells him. Steve, captivated, starts to move. Val's hair slides, serpentine, over her face as she shakes her head. "Not you, _caro_. Ricardo. Turn over."

With the sort of alacrity Steve could only expect from *himself*, Dick pushes himself up and, for a moment, meeting Steve's eyes, seems to be asking him a question. That moment flickers and passes; the next thing Steve knows, Dick is on his knees, chest against one of the handles on the merry-go-round, eyes closed. His mouth works against empty air and the toy creaks, shifting up and down as Val kneels behind him, easing down his dungarees, whispering to him.

He is not wearing underwear. That fact snags Steve's attention -- out of self-protection, no doubt, he focuses on the inconsequential (though the sweat shining in the hollow at the base of Dick's spine, over the globes of his buttocks, is in no way inconsequential; nothing so bright, as bright as Dick's *eyes*, can be anything but beautiful). All the better to let the germane details wash over him, carry him away without his consent; all the better to watch Dick shiver and thrust back, mouth an **o** of pleas, while Val slides light hands over him, leaves him exposed and aching -- Steve is sure that must be the case, because *he* is both those things, and more, and he is fully-dressed --

He shouldn't be here. He is intruding, he is encouraging public indecency, he is -- he is pulse-poundingly erect and breathless, leaning as far forward as the swing will allow, feet buried in the sand, *watching*.

He is a voyeur, an unnecessary and, no doubt, unwanted third-wheel, worse even than all the times he waited around the corner while Bucky bid sloppy, lip-smacking farewells to frauleins and jeunes monsieurs alike. Then, he would never have dreamed of peeking; now, he is incapable of seeing anything else.

Through the static roar of his pulse and the wheeze of metal and chain, he can hear Dick's voice, gone as ragged as his cheeks are red, as he begs. Val leans backward, her face twisted in fierce, obscure determination. Her blouse has been tugged down, but only half of it, and that only partway. One breast still bounces free; Steve thinks of Amazons, the mastectomies they performed to improve their archery. Her forearm flashes into sight, then vanishes, just as Dick twists and pants. He rolls his forehead against his arm, his groans growing louder. Val yanks the hair back out of her eyes and holds it, black and silver strands twining over her fist.

"He's talking to you," she says, grittily, jerking her chin at Steve, then down at Dick.

Dick's face is visible again, contorted, eyes shining. Sweat around his hairline catches the light, then disappears, as he moves forward, then back, the muscles in his back flexing and twisting, yearning toward Val's hand.

"Please," Dick says, and in that one word, Steve somehow understands the entire evening. More than that, perhaps, but he doesn't have time to think. He falls forward, catching himself on one hand before scrambling toward the merry-go-round. The impact of his fall vibrates through him.

"I'm here," Steve tells him, wondering for a moment what he can possibly do to console him -- what could he offer someone so joyous and beautiful, so unbound to gravity? He pets Dick's damps curls with a closed hand and kisses his forehead, his cheek, and, finally, his mouth.

Before him, separated only by Dick's narrow, heaving back, Val thrusts hard and regular into Dick. She sucks her lower lip until it's gone white, murmuring in Italian; she drops her hand from her hair and touches her breast, her belly, eyes drifting closed only to snap open as Dick pushes back against her, dropping his hips. He must be grinding into the merry-go-round; his pants come fast into Steve's mouth, his kiss as wide and generalized as anything. He clutches at Steve's shoulder, hangs on as if for dear life, and Steve kisses him more firmly, more *thoroughly*, as he eases Dick up and reaches for his penis. It springs against his hand, superheated and quivering, as Dick yowls. The sound flows down Steve's throat.

"I've got you," Steve breathes into their kiss, and, "I'm here, I'm here." Somehow, that's supposed to be a consolation, but whether for Dick or himself, Steve could never say. He gets one knee braced on the merry-go-round, arm supporting Dick, mouth on his face and neck, as the boy shudders and pleads against him, against Val.

"Please," Dick says again, and his hand grazes Steve's crotch, then returns, purposefully, to tug at the fly. "Can I?" he asks. "Let me, please --"

Steve blinks into starry blackness when Dick first touches him, the light throbbing in time with his pulse; when he regains himself, Val has her head tilted as she fucks Dick more roughly.

She watches them, eyes narrowed, a smirk as satisfied as any cat-with-cream.

She has won. Though the prize is unknown and there is no loser, her victory is unmistakable. Even as Dick jerks and spills his seed over Steve's hand, even as he lowers his head to finish Steve off with his mouth (his warm, slick, unbearably *beautiful* mouth), it is Val who glows. Steve can't help but cup the back of Dick's head, fingers tangling in curls, pushing forward, deeper; Val's eyes never leave them as she sprawls there, one hand between her legs, the other holding a cigarette. Val's eyes *make* the moment, carve it out in relief and tug the orgasm from the depths of Steve's gut, splash over Dick's chin.

"Well," she says, languorously, as Dick and Steve dress with trembling hands. "I believe a certain colonel would be *terribly* interested in tonight's activities."

Dick, confused, looks up at Steve. Steve grins and tightens his arm around Dick's shoulders. "I'm sure he would. By all means, tell him everything."

Val's brow arches. "Everything?"

Steve nods. "You only needed to ask. Both of you."

Val exhales smoke and tugs on her jacket's belt. "More interesting this way."

No one, least of all Steve, can argue with that.


End file.
